Forgiving Jackson (16 page)

“I would like for you to please talk to Jackson.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what about.”

“And I don’t care. I’ve got plenty to do around here. You talk to Jackson if he needs talking to.”

“I’ve tried.” She hesitated. “He says he’s not doing the benefit concert.”

“Color me surprised that Jackson is being difficult. For the ‘good guy of country music,’ he hasn’t made anything easier around here. What if he doesn’t do the concert? How bad could it look? He’s had a hard time. Put out that he’s sick and give everybody who attends some free downloads and a t-shirt. It’s not like there won’t be a show.”

Ginger looked at the floor. “I don’t care how it looks. I care about
him.
And this isn’t good for him. Do you think it’s good for him to stay up half the night watching movies and then sleep half the day? To walk away from this benefit that means more to him than anything except his brothers—or at least more than anything except Beau? I’m not sure even Gabe and Rafe would rate that high.”

“I don’t know what’s good for him. I’m not in charge of him and neither are you. I think he has to decide what’s best.”

“So you think you have to be
in charge
of somebody to care what happens to them?”

“No. But Jackson’s a grown man. He’s been through a lot—not even counting his family tragedy. Maybe he needs a break. He’s worked nonstop for years. And I’m sure he had his share of struggles getting started in the business.”

“Oh, he did not!” Ginger rolled her eyes. “He never struggled a minute—not with his career. He bulldozed himself down to Sixteenth Avenue when he was eighteen years old with five songs and a guitar. He smiled the right smiles and threw his family’s name around through the right doors and had a gold record six months later.”

“You are
not
trying to sit here and tell me he’s not talented,” Emory said slowly. In spite of herself, her hackles raised a little.

“No! He’s walking talent. I didn’t say he didn’t work hard. Those five songs didn’t come out of thin air. I said he didn’t struggle. And he didn’t. He walked in and took what he intended to have. And now it seems like he’s trying to throw it away with both hands.”

“Not my business and not my problem.”

“Here’s the thing. Fans are fickle. They love you, but underneath it all, the question is always, ‘What have you done for me lately?’ Canceling the tour after what happened in L.A. was one thing. People understand because they want to. But if he doesn’t do this benefit, they’re going to start asking questions and in fifteen minutes, he’ll be yesterday’s news.”

“Maybe that’s what he wants to be. Maybe he’s tired of working.”

Ginger shook her head like she was talking to the most stupid toddler on the planet.

“Are you tired of working, Emory? Are you tired of organizing, making beautiful parties, and making impossible people happy? I’ve watched you all week. You don’t give a tinker’s damn about quilts but you care that those women do. It’s what you do. And music is what he does. He’s lost without it. Surely you can see that.”

“How could I? This is the only Jackson I know. If he’s lost, I wouldn’t know a found one.”

That was a lie. She’d glimpsed him when she was fifteen and he was sixteen. She’d seen him in a hundred videos that she’d replayed a thousand times, read about him in five hundred articles. More than that, she’d seen into his very core through Amelia’s stories.

“That’s a lie,” Ginger said, mirroring Emory’s own thoughts. “Look, I don’t care what you think of me. I’ve never cared what people thought. I’m bossy and I have tunnel vision. I won’t take no for an answer unless no is what I’m after. But I care what happens to Jackson and what’s happening is not good.”

“I think you just don’t want to lose your job.” The words sounded hollow, even to herself.

Ginger laughed. “Do you think Jackson Beauford hasn’t paid me enough money over the last fourteen years to live on the rest of my life? Or that I couldn’t make ten calls and get ten artists in a bidding war for the pleasure of having me be bossy on their behalf?”

Emory said nothing; there was nothing to say.

“You’re a little like me. You don’t want ten other events businesses in a bidding war over you, either. You want to do what you’ve been doing, where you’ve been doing it, with the people who already know how to do things your way. And unless I miss my guess, Jackson is intent on shutting down Around the Bend, and you with it, so he can be a hermit.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“No,” she said wearily. “Jackson doesn’t have to tell me much.”

“Why me? If you can’t change his mind after all these years why do you think I can make a difference?”

“Oh, child. I’ve been with Jackson a long time. I’ve seen him go through a lot of women. And there’s not one who ever tried to leave the room that he called back. You can make a difference because there’s something there between the two of you. I’m not sure it’s good for him. I’m pretty sure it’s not good for you. But it’s there. And if anyone can make him change his mind, you can.”

Emory put her head in her hands. She did not want to hear this.

“That’s not true.”

Ginger raised an eyebrow and got to her feet. “Well. I’ve said my piece. You’ll talk to him or you won’t.” She stepped toward the door. Then she paused. “One more thing. Do you know who
did
like me? From the first? Who never questioned my motives?”

Emory shook her head.

“Amelia.”

No fair!
They looked at each other for a long moment.

“Wait a minute,” Emory said. “Let me put on some clothes. I’ll get a golf cart and take you back to big house.”

It had been a long day. Emory had told the quilters goodbye after lunch and then gone to her office to double check the details for the Neills’ fiftieth anniversary party—and it was a good thing.

A saxophone player in the big band orchestra she’d booked months ago had dropped dead the day before and the leader was so distraught he probably wouldn’t have ever thought to call to cancel. It was far easier to hire a country band in Nashville, but after hours of phone calls and watching YouTube videos, she’d finally found another available big band orchestra. When she’d called the Neills’ daughter to tell her of the change, Cindy Neill Hampton began to second-guess the decisions she’d made and decided she wanted the dancing outside at the gazebo after all.

Thank goodness Emory had headed her off before she changed the menu—the one thing that ought to have been changed. But Emory had tried to talk sense into her months ago and it hadn’t done any good. Now, with less than twenty-four hours to go, what was done was done where that was concerned. So Emory had eaten dinner in her office while she made up a new set of charts and diagrams for the set-up crew.

It was almost nine o’clock when she stepped out the back door to head for home and bed. That’s when she heard the music. Jackson was on the side porch playing acoustic guitar.

Maybe he had decided to do the benefit after all, which would save her from having to make a decision about what Ginger had asked. And, though it had been at the back of her mind ever since Ginger had talked to her, she still didn’t know the right answer. On the one hand, it was none of her business. On the other, maybe he did need to do the show, though she doubted he’d listen to her. Instead of turning toward the carriage house, Emory moved closer to the side porch and leaned on the wall around the corner. She would listen for just a few minutes.

“Emory Lowell, come on out of the shadows. If you’re going to get a free Jackson Beauford concert, at least let me lay eyes on you.”

She stepped into view. No point in trying to deny that she was hiding and listening.

He lay on his back on the wicker settee, with one bare foot on the floor and his guitar laying across his stomach. He continued to strum. Emory sat down in a chair opposite him.

“What’s that you’re playing?” she asked. “I don’t recognize it.”

He strummed some more. “A song about a smile.” He gave her an exaggerated smile. “A
lady’s
smile.”

“Doesn’t it have lyrics?”

“It does. Right in my head.” He played some more.

“Pretty.”

“Thanks. It’s not finished.” He hummed a little and sang a random word or two—something about promises and rhyme.

“Sing what you’ve got,” she said.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Just no. Why don’t you go get us some brownies?”

“There aren’t any brownies.”

“Can you make some?”

“No.”

“Well, hell. I wanted some brownies. I like nuts in my brownies.” He continued to play. “Pecans. I hate walnuts.”

“How unfortunate for walnuts. How do you feel about other nuts?”

“Hmm. Peanuts, yes. Cashews, yes. Brazil nuts, no, hell no. They’re so big they’re not even natural. Almonds, meh. Take them or leave them. Now macadamias, I like. A lot. Not more than pecans, but I’m very loyal to pecans.”

“Good to know. If I ever learn to bake, I’ll be ready. I’ll put your nut preferences on your card.”

“My card?” He sat up and swung his legs around but continued to strum the guitar.

“I have index cards on clients, plus people I especially like. Besides contact information and birthdays, the cards have likes and dislikes, clothing sizes, allergies. Anything I need to remember.”

“And all this is on real cards? Not a computer file?”

“Real cards. I started it a long time ago. I’ve thought of moving the information to my computer but I kind of like the cards. Besides, I have a beautiful wooden box for them.”

“And I have a card?”

“You know it.”

“What’s on it?”

“Your nut preferences.”

“You only just found that out. I don’t have a card at all.”

“You will. I’ll make it tonight.” She pretended to write in the air. “Jackson Beauford. No walnuts. Always pecans.”

“Don’t forget the macadamias.”

“I would never.”

He played on and hummed for a few minutes. It was easy to let herself go mellow here in the dark with Jackson’s music drifting through her.

“No brownie, huh?”

“No.”

“Will you make us some bologna sandwiches then? With mayonnaise and tomato? On white bread. No mustard, no cheese.”

“I don’t want a sandwich, bologna or otherwise.”

“Then will you make me one?”

“I might. If you’ll sing me that song you’re playing.”

“Can’t do it, Emory. Not happening.”

“Then no sandwich.”

“I need to get Sammy moved out here. He doesn’t give me any trouble.”

“That would be a good plan, then. I’m not Sammy.”

He flashed her a wide, bright smile. “I can see that.” He strummed a little more. “Tell you what.”

“What do you tell me?”

“I’ll sing another song for you. Anything else, if you’ll make me a sandwich.”

“Anything?”

“Anything. What’s your all-time favorite Jackson Beauford song?”

“What makes you think I’ve got one?”

“Everybody does.”

“Egotistical much? Abby doesn’t. Remember, she doesn’t even know who you are.”

“Besides her. Come on, tell me. For a sandwich. And remember not everybody gets a private Jackson Beauford concert and especially not for a sandwich. Usually, I have to get some potato salad, too. And a brownie.”

“With pecans?”

“Well, yeah! But for you, just the sandwich.”

“Okay. But you have to sing it all.”

“I would never leave one of my masterpieces unfinished.”

“Okay. I want ‘The Hurting Side of Love.’”

And like she knew he would, he groaned. “
That?
I wrote that when I was eighteen. It can’t be your favorite.”

“It really is.”

“
Anything
but that. I’ll sing anything else. Any two. How about ‘Hard Heart on Easy Street’ and ‘Habit Not Worth Breaking’? I’m proud of those.”

“You should be. But I want ‘The Hurting Side of Love.’”

“I’m not sure I want a sandwich that bad.”

“Oh, come on. That record sold eight million copies. You sing it at every concert.”
Damn!
She wanted to bite her tongue for letting him know she knew that, but it was too late.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I’m impressed at your expertise on the works of Jack Beauford.”

She shrugged. “I saw one of those TV biographies on you once. Amelia was watching it. I remember things.”

“Do me a favor and don’t write that on my card.”

“I won’t.” She didn’t need to. “Come on, you got my hopes up. Sing it.”

“I’m going to have to have more than a sandwich.”

“That’s not fair. And I’m still not baking brownies.”

“The price went up. I don’t want brownies anymore. I’ll sing it, if you’ll dance.”

“Forget it.” She used to like to dance but it had been a long time.

“Come on. It’s not like I asked for a dirty dance. Just a little ladylike private dance for a private performance of a multi-platinum, piece-of-crap hit.”

“It is
not
a piece of crap. It’s sweet.”

His eyes widened and he laughed. “You really do like it, don’t you? You aren’t making fun of me.”

“No. I really do like it. So do a lot of other people. At least eight million.”

“Okay.” He strummed a few bars. “But you have to dance. I’m holding you to that. Plus the sandwich.”

What the hell? She was feeling light. “I’ll dance if the music moves me.”

“It will. Here goes.” He looked nervous, as if he hadn’t performed the song hundreds of times. He stood, then played the lively intro and belted out:

He grinned, raised his eyebrows, and looked pointedly at her feet. Then he went into the guitar solo. It wasn’t the same on the acoustic guitar but it was plenty fine. She might have danced even if he hadn’t asked her. When she began to move easily to the music he laughed with delight and fell into step with her and she joined in his laughter.